


Orpheus

by Locrine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Locrine/pseuds/Locrine
Summary: Here he waits, plotting his vengeance, inside his eternal cell. Day in and day out, the same torturous pain jolts through his body. He doesn't know how long he has been in this place; the passage of time is irrelevant from within his immortal coil... but he will soon break free of his confinement... yes, Voldemort would indeed have the last laugh.





	Orpheus

**Vignette: Panacea**

  


Here he waits, plotting his vengeance, inside his eternal cell. Day in and day out, the same torturous pain jolts through his body. He doesn’t know how long he has been in this place; the passage of time is irrelevant from within his immortal coil. 

He keeps his pride. He refuses to yell out, despite the steady stream of blood dripping down his face and out of his ears and eyes… and despite the pain. 

After all, it took the entirety of the auror force to contain him. And he slaughtered over half of them. The aurors would never recover from such a blow.

Yes, Voldemort would indeed have the last laugh. Because what were they rewarded with upon his capture?   
  
The damning realization that he just. Wouldn’t. Die.

Thousands of galleons, hundreds of families to give their petty condolences to. Riots in the streets. Diagon Alley going up in glorious flames. And the ministry remaining as corrupt and twisted as ever.

Fools, all of them. 

He would outlast them all. And right when they forgot… when they believe him weakened from years of pain and suffering, he would rise from the ashes a phoenix. The irony of this metaphor was not lost on him.

Voldemort remembers the days leading up to his final imprisonment clearly, even through the fog of agony that often clouds his mind. He was kept in the lowest floor of Azkaban, with a fleet of guards surrounding him around the clock. The dementors didn’t affect him; after all, there wasn’t much left inside him to attract them. 

His magic was suppressed. Dozens of chains glowing faintly, a heavy weight on his shoulders. Yet he stood tall all the same. 

Although the dementors did nothing to him, they certainly changed the guards over time. The first few days, they would look at him with vindictive pride, strutting around and conversing cheerfully, refusing to give in to the dementors’ gloom. Being the idiotic men they were, their cheer only attracted the dementors moreso. 

It all changed when they finally began receiving newspapers from home. Tales of horror and loss, of destruction and rage. They thought the world would fix itself now that the Dark Lord was off the streets. My, how wrong they were.

Voldemort’s legacy was immortalized, much like his soul. The Ministry would try its best to censor the textbooks and rewrite history; after all, they were the victors in this battle. But all of Britain would still whisper his name, his ideologies. They would know he was still out there, waiting to take back his throne. Their censorship would only make it worse. The Ministry’s incompetence amazed even _him_.

Said incompetence was put to good use when guarding his cell, for the same fleet of guards were still there, now depressed and morose. And even more ridiculous, Voldemort was not gagged.

Did they think it was only his power that attracted his following?

He had finally spoken to them after a week. He told them of the Patronus charm. They thought he was teaching them some sort of ancient curse, which said a lot about the level of intelligence he was dealing with here, and were reluctant. But they soon turned desperate, and much to their astonishment, they were given a temporary reprieve. It opened a line of dialogue between the prisoner and his jailors.

He asked them questions about their lives after that. They were fairly open with him - after all, who did Voldemort have to go gossiping to? There must have been an aspect of surrealism involved as well, telling a man marked for death about their so very mundane problems.

Marco didn’t have any children, but he did have a dog he adored. Octavius lived alone and was working off debt from the poor decisions of his young self. 

Then there was poor Johnathan, who had two sons and a wife. He had realized belatedly that his long term job in Azkaban would split the family apart. Johnathan was certain his wife was cheating on him at this very moment and doing ‘Merlin knows what’ with the large payments coming in from guarding the big bad Dark Lord. He would much rather retain his pride by serving his country in Azkaban than return to a broken home. 

Voldemort was a sympathetic ear. He listened. The other guards told Johnathan he was mad, that there was no need to be so dramatic. But he told him what he wanted to hear. That it was a fine thing, serving the Ministry. There was no point returning home. Had he not experienced a slice of that perfect, family man lifestyle already? He would only be met with debt and disappointment. 

A few days later, and he never saw the man again. The guards now gave him a wide berth. 

Pathetic. 

A month passed. Things seemed to be dying down, according to the Prophet. The guards wouldn’t even look at him now, but he still talked to them and whispered threats. It unnerved them greatly, and it was the only amusement he had on this barren rock of misery now that they refused to speak to him.

At last, he was moved out of Azkaban. He was knocked out and transported into the bowels of ministry, locked behind layers upon layers of protections he could vaguely sense. If it were another time, another day, those layers would have disintegrated under the the might of his magic. But the time was today, and he was not able to.

He did not allow this to bother him so greatly, for there was a comfort in knowing the names and faces of every guard in Azkaban. Voldemort would make them pay.

He was placed in a blank room with grey walls, although he had no doubt he could be seen on all sides. He was briefly reminded of those cliche muggle interrogation rooms with the two way mirrors, but then he quickly expelled such a muggle thought from his mind. 

A portly man who didn’t look like he would last a second out on a battle field waddled in with a glass tube in his hand. He was followed by a precession of figures: Alastor Moody, who glared at him hatefully, Kingsly Shacklebolt, unsure and quiet, Nymphadora Tonks, emotional and scared.

...Severus Snape, nearly impossible to read. Seeing his face brought a sharp smile to Voldemort’s face that he could have repressed, but decided not to, for the simple amusement of making Severus very afraid.

Oh yes, to anyone else, the dour man came off as calm and collected. But Voldemort knew Severus like no other. What he saw in those dark eyes was fear. 

And last to join the room… Harry James Potter. 

Voldemort was surprised to not find even a trace of terror on his face. Instead, he looked annoyed and uncomfortable. Voldemort found himself understanding, ever so slightly. He most likely wanted nothing to do with this political masquerade. 

They settled into the room, with Harry immediately leaning against a wall in the corner, and the rest of them sitting themselves directly in front of him at the table. Voldemort nodded in acknowledgement.

“Severus, wonderful to see you unharmed. The life of a free man must be serving you well.”

He was amused to find that although they had most certainly planned and prepared what they would ask and say to the letter, the execution of said plan was not going well. They probably didn’t even know what to call him.

“I’m wondering, did you sell out all of your friends?” he asked conversationally. “If you even considered them friends, that is, or some sort of companionship. Regardless, I’m sure they are all withering away in a cell thanks to your great kindness.”

“Shut it, Riddle. We’ll be asking the questions today,” Moody snarled out, but even with the man’s considerable presence it sounded tame and rather lame. 

So they had settled on his true name. He expected this, it would be ridiculous of them to address him as “You Know Who,” but even so that small inkling of irritation he had always felt simmered to the surface of his mind. But he didn’t let it show.

“Of course. Your wish is my command,” he said mockingly. 

The portly man - Andrew Simmons, if he remembered correctly - began to fiddle with the tube in his hand.

“Er, Mr. Riddle, if you could just-” he stuttered. Annoyed, Voldemort leaned back in his chair and watched the man try to get the words out. He never had much patience for this level of stupidity.

“Please, take your time. I understand you must be feeling very small in a room full of such prominent people.”

Simmons’s face went tomato red. Severus, whose temperament was more similar to his former lord’s than he was willing to admit, snatched the vial from his hands. 

“Alastor, Kingsly.”

The two men stood up and restrained him while Severus came over. Deciding to humor them, he opened his mouth without a fuss and let the Veritaserum flow over his tongue. If he thought it would work, maybe he would have fought. But he knew it wouldn’t with Occlumency shields as strong as his own. 

Surely Severus knew this as well, but it appeared he was going along with the show. 

After his vitals were checked, they all sat down again. 

“State your full name for the record,” Severus said emotionlessly. 

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.” He could feel the effects of the serum worms its way into his mind. It was uncomfortable, but he could easily fight against it.

From his corner of the room, Harry flinched and snapped to attention at the sound of Voldemort’s name.

“When and where were you born?”

“December thirty-first, 1929. As to where, I’m not sure. Somewhere in London.”

As a matter of a fact, he did know. He also knew Harry was aware of where he was born; Dumbledore surely went into great detail about his life. 

“In what place or places did you grow up prior to receiving your Hogwarts letter?”

The occupants of the room leaned forward, almost imperceptibly. Of course they were curious. Where could a creature such as Lord Voldemort have developed other than the pits of hell?

Simmons had his quill at the ready, clearly excited to write down his entire sob story of a childhood and sell the notes to the press. What headlines it would make! What profits it would bring!

He closed his eyes, almost as though he was reminiscing. He opened them.

“I’m sure you could ask Harry, he most certainly knows all of the details.”

A fist was slammed loudly on the table, knocking over an ink well. Nymphadora’s hair turned dark red, and Harry was now looking down at his feet. 

It occurred to him in that moment that Harry hadn’t told them, if the venomous look Severus was aiming at the boy was anything to go by. Voldemort graciously decided not to comment on the lack of a united front.

Although the Veritaserum was most assuredly not working, the interrogation still went on as per the Ministry’s demand. To some questions, he gave short, one worded answers. When asked to elaborate, he would stay silent. To other questions, he would spin great tales, so tall that even Simmons caught on and stopped writing it down half way through. 

And then there was the truth. Yes, he could have given answers riddled with half truths and believable lies - he did, in fact. But sometimes, he would allow them to bask in the full magnitude of what he accomplished. 

When it came time for him to speak about the night he murdered the Potters, he spared them no details. After all, making everyone uncomfortable and both Severus and Harry upset was like killing two birds with one stone… or two Potters with one killing curse.

Unfortunately, Kingsley seemed to have expected this and sent a deafening spell Harry’s way. 

“But you were then… vanquished,” Severus said, obviously relieved the worst of it was over.

Voldemort chose not to comment. He still felt bitter - no, more like enraged, if he focused enough on his disconnected emotions - thinking about that night.

After several hours, they finally finished, ending after he explained how he had convinced Johnathan to commit suicide. Simmons straightened his papers, and the others got up to stretch. He, however, was still chained to the table and the ground. 

Then, eventually, Simmons, Tonks, Moody, and Shacklebolt left. 

“You will be moved somewhere new within the next couple of weeks,” he was later informed by Severus. They were alone now, except for Harry. 

He nodded his head. “The Ministry needs to be shown taking initiative. Holding me in the same supposedly airtight prison I tore apart doesn’t look good.”

The atmosphere then took on that of a funeral after an inappropriate joke was made. Still, he stared at Severus. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the traitor; there was a certain level of respect he still had for the potions master. That, along with the anger he still had towards him, combined to make him determined to at least make Severus as unnerved as possible. This went on for a few minutes while Severus seemed to be sorting through whatever demons he was struggling with as he stared back, only to be broken as untactfully as possible by Harry.

“Do you regret anything?” he blurted out, before slamming a hand over his mouth. Severus, in that moment, looked as though he could kill a man. Voldemort was very well acquainted with that expression.

Voldemort tilted his head in consideration. 

“No.”

It was simple and, quite plainly, the truth. He had traveled the path fate herself had laid out for him. Everything that had happened was meant to happen, so he could evolve into a greater being. His imprisonment was only a trial in the grand scheme that was his life.

Severus looked back and forth between Voldemort and Harry before finally letting out a sigh that spoke a thousand words as to how tired he was and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he, not too roughly, grabbed Harry’s arm and hauled him out of the room with surprising ease. Harry looked rather scrawny for a seventeen year old, he thought absently. It reminded him of himself when he was that age.

It was difficult to think of Harry Potter as his killer all those years ago.

He was left mostly alone after that. They didn’t bother with three meals per day, for that would demonstrate a certain level of courtesy they had no interest in showing. And regardless, they knew he wouldn’t die of starvation if even the veil failed to work. 

On occasion, a frightened ministry worker would set down something small like an apple or a biscuit, which was pitiful really. If he wasn’t so annoyed, he would have been more amused with his situation, but instead he was just reminded of the bleak winters and scorching Summers of his youth when water was scarce and food was scarcer. 

He sat ever so still, confined to his chair and chained to the ground, and tracked every movement the worker made as they placed yet another apple on the table in front of him. It was red, which was a shame because he much preferred green. 

Voldemort imagined that it must’ve seemed like he was some sort of picture, forever frozen in time, to an observer. A muggle picture, that is. His face remained the same (blank). His hair stayed the same. He never grew any facial hair- it wasn’t like he was given the opportunity to shave, he just didn’t need to. 

Each day he could feel his own magic adapt and change, growing resistant to the glowing chains around him suppressing his magic. Such a horrid device. No being should be denied their own magic, regardless of blood.

When the day came when he conquered the chains holding him back, he had thought, he would have his retribution.

_Retribution_.

How sweet that word tasted in his mouth.

Day in and day out, this routine continued… he grew stronger, a different person entered the room, and he would end the day by reluctantly eating what little was put in front of him (he could have sworn he tasted the poison they laced his food with. And yet, it never affected him)... 

Until the routine that had developed was uprooted.

Perhaps he should correct his statement from earlier. Voldemort did indeed remember the days leading up to his final destination as clearly as crystal. Except for one. 

It was the day before he was finally moved to the prison Severus spoke of, he presumed. He woke to darkness. He didn’t normally sleep, so this certainly set off alarm bells. Then he heard voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then one panicked voice, and he went back under, then woke to the place he was now. 

It was a strange place. In the glimpses he had been able to steal during the breaks between his torture, it was not the stereotypical stone brick dungeon. 

It was completely white. There were no walls from what he could tell, just a never ending sheet of white. The ceiling was white too. A clever work of magic, he was sure. A brilliant illusion.

Sometimes he would see a flash of color, or a hiss. But before he could focus too closely on it, that all consuming thunder of pain would dance across his body, and it would be gone. 

Oh, how they would suffer. Thinking of the precise ways all of those who wronged him would be murdered lessened the pain, but only slightly. 

First, the guards who watched over him in Azkaban. He would slit their throats, the same way he knew Johnathan ended it all, and let their bodies crumple on the ground like they were puppets with their strings cut. An all too apt metaphor. 

Seemingly insignificant players in the grand game that was his life, but it would stir up something mighty.

Fear.

The Ministry would cover up his escape for as long as they could. But the murdering of the guards would force their hands to tell the truth.

Next, the remaining aurors from that final stand. Some would run and hide. He would find them first. Reward those who were brave enough to stand tall and refuse to flee in the face of his wrath. They would be able to live a little longer. 

Then, the Minister. He would be difficult, but the diminished auror force would make it near impossible to protect him well. The Ministry would be falling apart at this point. They would be forced to hire mercenaries for suitable defense. 

After the Minister, he would find Severus Snape. Voldemort had no doubt in his mind that Severus played a large role in his capture.

He would kill him quickly and surround his bodies with pure white lilies. Voldemort’s twisted mind, even through the pain, managed to find levity in that. 

Then finally, at long last, his golden ticket… 

The white hot pain suddenly paused, much sooner than the usual interval. His face slackened from the unexpected release of tension, and he looked up. 

There was a figure in the distance. Scrawny and unassuming. He could faintly make out a pair of dazzlingly bright green eyes. 

Speak of the devil.

“Harry Potter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I don't think I'm going to be the type to do a lot of these, but I'd like to address a few things. Firstly, this is definitely an AU. Most of the changes will be addressed in later chapters. I'm also very open to criticism - constructive, preferably. I've written a few stories before, but nothing that will ever be seeing the light of day. But anyways, I'd always like to improve, so if you notice anything like character inconsistencies or improper grammar, or have any suggestions, feel free to leave a review. Lastly, I have major plot points and a definitive ending planned out. Side note- the chapter titles are inspired by my favorite video game soundtrack of all time, kudos if you recognize it.


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